


a knife to a gun fight

by Imkerin



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imkerin/pseuds/Imkerin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, Vova," Anatoly says, as soon as Vladimir picks up the phone.  There's a very small dragging hitch in his breathing, almost drowned out by traffic noise, that brings Vladimir to his feet in an instant.  "I just heard from Alexei Ilyich."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a knife to a gun fight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



"So, Vova," Anatoly says, as soon as Vladimir picks up the phone. There's a very small dragging hitch in his breathing, almost drowned out by traffic noise, that brings Vladimir to his feet in an instant. "I just heard from Alexei Ilyich."

"And what did he have to say?" Vladimir has never been as good at acting as Anatoly, but he does his best to keep his voice steady and light as he heads for the door and out, holding up a hand to silence Sergei's questions as he passes by.

"There's trouble with the referee. Make sure we don't have any money on Zenit."

"I'll take care of it."

And Anatoly hangs up on him, which is good, because Vladimir is sure he can't keep it up much longer, and also very, very bad, both because Anatoly has never bet against CSKA Moscow in his life and because they'd left Alexei Ilyich dead in a Siberian prison cell with his ribs torn out. He wipes his phone on the way downstairs, tossing it casually in the trash can at the base of the stairwell, and snaps his fingers for the keys to one of the taxis as he walks into the garage. "Be careful with the deliveries tomorrow," he tells Dmitri as he takes them. "Something's come up."

"With the man in the mask? Do you need us?"

"We'll see. There may be some cleanup to do tonight."

Dmitri, good man that he is, just nods his obedience and clears the way out of the garage as Vladimir shuts the taxi door and speeds out. 

Alone on the street, he finally lets himself snarl because anger is better, more productive, more satisfying than the worry that's threatening to scratch its way up out of his belly. It's late enough that the streets are clearing out; late enough that he makes it to the deli within minutes.

Parking the taxi in an alley two blocks down, Vladimir walks the rest of the way, gun in hand and on alert -- but he's not challenged and he sees no one. The deli is closed and locked, the lights dark: Tolya's not here yet. He spits on the ground to clear the metallic taste out of his mouth and opens it up himself, punching in the security code and taking a quick look around to make sure everything is as it should be.

He's just unlocked the back stairwell when he hears the soft purr of a car stopping outside through the still-open front door. Anatoly's already climbing out of the driver's seat by the time he gets there; he sees the blood on his hands first, dripping down out of the sleeves of his jacket, and then registers the car: limousine, black, tinted, anonymous. 

Anatoly stumbles, closing the door, and Vladimir is down the steps and has an arm around him between one heartbeat and another. "Fuck," he says, barely hearing what he's saying, " _fuck,_ I'll fucking kill him, the motherfucker--"

"Inside," Anatoly says, leaning on him a little too heavily, and Vladimir gets them back into the deli, shoving the door shut behind them, locking it one-handed, and helping Anatoly to one of the bar stools.

"Who was it?" he asks, although he knows, Anatoly already as good as told him; he just doesn't want to believe it. This close, even in the dim light, he can see the drying blood covering the front of his leather jacket, the bullet hole in the shoulder. There's far too much of it for it to be all his, at least, and he gently unzips the jacket without waiting for Anatoly to answer.

Anatoly smiles faintly as Vladimir peels the jacket off - he knows Vladimir knows, it's obvious enough - though it shifts into a grimace as he moves his shoulder to let it down over his arms. There's a wad of cloth pressed against his upper arm, a makeshift bandage that looks like it used to be the sleeve of a dress shirt; it starts to slip as Anatoly drops the jacket to the floor, and Vladimir reaches out to hold it in place, feeling the blood seeping freely beneath his fingers. It'll need to be dressed better, and soon.

"Who shot you, Tolya?" he asks again, covering the sound of Anatoly's breath hissing through his teeth as his fingers press too hard against the wound.

"The little lapdog had a bite after all," Anatoly says. He brushes his knuckles against Vladimir's hand before pressing the bandage against himself. "No, listen, you were right - we shouldn't have trusted them to help."

Vladimir bends and picks up the jacket, hanging it over his shoulder. "That won't be a problem now?"

"No."

He knows his brother has never enjoyed the kill as much as he does. Not to say he's squeamish, of course not, but the adrenaline, it wears off faster for Anatoly than it does for him. "We need to get upstairs," he says, because it'll be easier if they can both walk, and Anatoly doesn't argue, just stands up off the stool and lets Vladimir support him up the narrow staircase into the tiny upstairs apartment. 

They haven't used this place before; it'll be safer than anywhere else in the city because of that, and Vladimir figures they'll need at least a few hours safety to deal with this. He calls Dmitri on one of the burner phones to take care of the limousine first; by the time he gets Anatoly sitting down again, this time on a bed with some painkillers and vodka down him, and the medical kit out and prepared, he's already starting to look a little shocky. "Tell me what happened," Vladimir says, taking out the shears and cutting the shirt off him.

"I found him with a woman," Anatoly says. There's bruises all over him underneath the streaks of blood, fresh enough they're just starting to bloom, like an ugly reminder of bad days. Vladimir traces the worst with one fingertip, a heavy streak up his ribs that looks like it very nearly broke the skin, and thinks Fisk can count himself lucky that his brother finished the job. "I told him we'd do it, we'd take his offer. He didn't want to talk, he was too busy with her, so I let him pass me off to Wesley. Stupid."

"We wanted the deal," Vladimir says. "You couldn't have done anything else to get it." He gently begins to clean Anatoly's arm, wiping away the blood and easing the edges of the bandage away from the wound beneath. "What did he do?"

Anatoly's hand finds his shoulder, resting there, fingers pressing against the side of his throat as Vladimir works. "He took me in the car, talked to me like they were ready to make the deal, like they were serious about tracking him down. Drove me straight into Fisk's ambush. I got lucky, caught Fisk in the throat before he saw my knife, then took Wesley, then the driver. Then I called you."

"So it _was_ Fisk then," Vladimir says. He's grateful for the pain of Anatoly's grip; it keeps his own hands steady as he picks thread and metal out of his brother's flesh. "Our entire 'referee problem'. Probably he knew all about the man in the mask."

Anatoly waits in silence until he's done, until his arm is packed and bandaged and Vladimir is clearing away the bloody scraps, to say: "I found the mask on Wesley after I put him down. They had planned it all along, all of it." 

"He thought we would go down just like Prohaszka," Vladimir says. And that's it, isn't it? They could have, they could so easily have, if Anatoly had been just a little less good -- or a little less lucky -- with his knife, and all because Vladimir had been too damn stubborn and let Fisk divide them. "Fuck!" He kicks the chair he'd been sitting on across the room, sending it smashing into the wall with a satisfying crack of wood. It doesn't help anything, and to be honest it doesn't really make him feel better; his hands are aching for blood that isn't Anatoly's. "We can't trust the others. Who knows which of them he promised _our_ share to?"

"You're right." There's a faint slur to Anatoly's voice: the codeine catching up to him.

"No more bowing," Vladimir says, turning back to him. "No more outsiders, no more strangers." Anatoly's eyes are still open, fixed on Vladimir, though his pupils have gone wide with the drugs; he doesn't look away as Vladimir comes over to stand above him. "Tolya, we have to finish this now. We have to take them all tonight, tomorrow, before they know Fisk is gone, before they're ready to fight back. You got the head, let me take care of the rest. This is war, it has to be."

Anatoly hesitates only an instant before he reaches out with his good arm to take Vladimir's hand in his, pulling him down for a kiss that lingers too long to be goodbye. He still tastes of blood; his split lip is swollen-hot against Vladimir's, like a blessing, a temptation. "Yes," he says, "yes, we'll do it your way. Together."


End file.
